Old Izergil and other stories / Старуха Изергиль и другие рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“N-no.” Gavrilla was putting forth his best effort, his lungs working like bellows, his arms like steel springs. The water gurgled under the boat and the blue ribbon in its wake was wider than before. Gavrilla became drenched in sweat but he did not let up on the oars. Twice that night he had a great fright; he did not wish to have a third one. The only thing he wanted was to get this accursed job over as quickly as possible, set foot on dry land and escape from that man while he was still alive and out of jail. He resolved not to talk to him, not to oppose him in any way, to do everything he ordered him to, and if he managed to get away safely, to say a prayer to St. Nicholas the Miracle-Worker on the very next day. An impassioned prayer was ready on his tongue, but he held it back, panting like a locomotive and glancing up at Chelkash from under drawn brows.

Chelkash, long and lean, was crouching like a bird about to take wing, his hawklike eyes piercing the darkness ahead, his hooked nose sniffing the air, one hand clutching the steering oar, the other pulling at his moustache, which twitched as his thin lips spread in a smile. Chelkash was pleased with his haul, with himself, and with this youth whom he had terrorized and converted into his slave. As he watched Gavrilla exerting himself, he felt sorry for him and thought he would offer him a word of encouragement.

“Ekh!” he said softly, with a little laugh, “got a good scare, did you?”

“Not so bad,” grunted Gavrilla.

“You can take it easier now. The danger’s over. There’s just one place more we’ve got to slip past. Take a rest.”

Gavrilla obediently stopped rowing, and dropped his oars into the water again.

“Row softly. Keep the water from talking. There’s a gate we’ve got to get past. Shhh. The men here can’t take a joke. Always ready with their guns. You’ll have a hole in your head before you know what’s struck you.”

Now the boat was gliding through the water almost without sound. The only sign of its movement was the blue shine of the water dripping off the oars and the blue flare of the sea as the drops struck it. The night grew darker and stiller. The sky no longer resembled an agitated sea – the clouds had spread out to form a heavy blanket that hung low and immobile over the water. The sea was even more calm and black, its warm saline odour was stronger than ever, and it no longer seemed so boundless.

“If only it would rain!” murmured Chelkash. “It would hide us like a curtain.”

Great forms rose out of the water to right and left of the boat. They were barges – dark and dreary and motionless. On one of them a light could be seen moving: someone was walking about with a lantern in his hand. The sea made little pleading sounds as it patted the sides of the barges, and they gave chill and hollow answers, as if unwilling to grant the favours asked of them.

“A cordon!” said Chelkash in a scarcely audible voice.

Ever since he had told Gavrilla to row softly, the latter had again been gripped by a feeling of tense expectation. As he strained ahead into the darkness it seemed to him that he was growing – his bones and sinews ached as they stretched and his head ached, too, filled as it was with a single thought. The skin of his back quivered and he had a sensation of pins-and-needles in his feet, His eyes felt as if they would burst from straining so hard into the darkness, out of which he expected someone to rise up any minute and shout at them: “Stop, thieves!”

Gavrilla shuddered on hearing Chelkash say “A cordon.” A dreadful thought flashed through his mind and struck upon his taut nerves: he thought of calling out for help. He even opened his mouth, pressed his chest against the side of the boat and took a deep breath, but horror of what he was about to do struck him like a lash; he closed his eyes and fell off the seat.

From out of the black waters rose a flaming blue sword of light; rose and cleaved the darkness of night; cut through the clouds in the sky and came to rest on the bosom of the sea in a broad blue ribbon of light. There it lay, its rays picking the forms of ships, hitherto unseen, out of the darkness – black silent forms, shrouded in the gloom of night. It was as if these ships had lain for long at the bottom of the sea, to which they had been consigned by the forces of the storm, and now, at the will of this flaming sword born of the sea, they had been raised, that they might gaze on the sky and on all things that exist above water. The rigging of their masts was like clinging seaweed that had been brought up from the bottom of the sea along with the gigantic black forms it enmeshed as in a net. Then once again this fearsome blue sword rose, flashing, off the bosom of the sea, and once again it cleaved the night and lay down again, this time in another spot. And again the forms of ships which had not been seen before were illuminated by its light.

Chelkash’s boat stopped and rocked on the water as if deliberating what to do. Gavrilla was lying in the bottom of the boat, his hands over his face, while Chelkash poked him with his foot and whispered savagely:

“That’s the customs cruiser, you fool! And that’s its spotlight. Get up. They’ll have it pointed at us in a minute. You’ll be the ruin of me and yourself as well, you idiot. Get up!”

A particularly effective kick in the back brought Gavrilla to his feet. Still afraid to open his eyes, he sat down, felt for the oars, and began to row.

“Easy! Easy, damn you! God, what a fool I picked up! What you afraid of, snout-face? A lantern – that’s all it is. Easy with those oars, God damn you! They’re searching for smugglers. But they won’t catch us. They’re too far out. Oh, no, they won’t catch us. Now we’re —” Chelkash looked about triumphantly “ – we’re out of danger. Phew! Well, you’re a lucky devil, even if you are a blockhead.”

Gavrilla rowed on, saying nothing, breathing heavily, stealing sidelong glances at the flaming sword that kept rising and falling. Chelkash said it was only a lantern, but he could not believe it. There was something uncanny about this cold blue light cleaving the darkness, giving the sea a silver shimmer, and once more Gavrilla was gripped by fear. He rowed mechanically, all his muscles taut as in expectation of a blow from above, and there was nothing he wanted now; he was empty and inanimate. The excitement of that night had drained everything human out of him.

But Chelkash was jubilant. His nerves, used to strain, quickly relaxed. His moustache twitched with gratification and his eyes sparkled. Never had he been in better humour; he whistled through his teeth, drew in deep breaths of the moist sea air, looked about him, smiled good-naturedly when his eyes came to rest on Gavrilla.

A wind sprang up, rousing the sea and covering it with little ripples. The clouds grew thinner and more transparent but the whole sky was still covered with them. The wind rushed lightly back and forth across the sea, but the clouds hung motionless, as if deeply engrossed in drab, uninteresting thoughts.

“Come, snap out of it, brother. You look as if you’d had all the spirit knocked out of you; nothing but a bag of bones left. As if it was the end of the world.”

Gavrilla was glad to hear a human voice, even if it was Chelkash’s.

“I’m all right,” he murmured.

“You look it! Got no stuffings in you. Here, take the steering oar and let me row. You must be tired.”

Gavrilla got up mechanically and changed places with him. In passing, Chelkash got a look at the boy’s white face and noticed that his knees were trembling so that they could hardly hold him. This made him more sorry than ever for him, and he gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Come, chin up! You did a good job. I’ll reward you well for it. What would you think if I handed you a twenty-five rouble note, eh?”

“I don’t want anything. Nothing but to get on shore.”

Chelkash gave a wave of his hand, spat, and began to row, swinging the oars far back with his long arms.

The sea was quite awake now. It amused itself by making little waves, ornamenting them with fringes of foam, and running them into each other so that they broke in showers of spray. The foam hissed and sighed as it dissolved, and the air was filled with musical sounds. The darkness seemed to have waked up, too.”

“So now,” said Chelkash, “you’ll go back to your village, get married, start working the land, raise corn, your wife will bear children, there won’t be enough to eat, and all your life you’ll work yourself to the bone. What fun is there in that?”

“Fun?” echoed Gavrilla faintly and with a little shudder.

Here and there the wind tore rifts in the clouds, revealing patches of blue sky set with one or two stars. The reflection of these stars danced on the water, now disappearing, now gleaming again.

“Bear more to the right,” said Chelkash. “We’re almost there. Hm, the job’s over. A big job. Just think, five hundred roubles in a single night!”

“Five hundred?” repeated Gavrilla incredulously. Frightened by the words, he gave the bundles a little kick and said, “What’s in them?”

“Things that are worth a lot of money. They’d bring in a thousand if I got the right price, but I can’t be bothered. Slick, eh?”

“Good Lord!” said Gavrilla unbelievingly. “If only I had as much!” He sighed as he thought of his village, his wretched farm, his mother, and all those dear and distant things for whose sake he had set out in search of work; for whose sake he had undergone the tortures of that night. He was caught up in a wave of memories – his little village on the side of a hill running down to the river, and the woods above the river with its birches, willows, rowans, and bird-cherry.

“How I need it!” he sighed mournfully.

“You don’t say. I s’pose you’d jump straight on a train and make a dash for home. And wouldn’t the girls be mad on you! Why, you could have any one of them you liked. And you’d build yourself a new house; although the money’s hardly enough for a house.”

“No, not for a house. Timber’s dear up our way.”

“At least you’d repair the old one. And what about a horse? Have you got a horse?”

“Yes, but it’s a feeble old thing.”

“So you’ll need to buy a new horse. A first-rate horse. And a cow… And some sheep. And some poultry, eh?”

“Ekh, don’t mention it! Couldn’t I set myself up fine!”

“You could, brother. And life would be like a song. I know a thing or two about such things myself. I had a nest of my own once. My father was one of the richest men in the village.”

Chelkash was scarcely rowing. The boat was tossed by the waves splashing mischievously against its sides, and it made almost no progress through the dark waters, now growing more and more playful. The two men sat there rocking and looking about them, each absorbed in his own dreams. Chelkash had reminded Gavrilla of his village in the hope of quieting the boy’s nerves and cheering him up. He had done so with his tongue in his cheek, but as he taunted his companion with reminders of the joys of peasant life, joys which he himself had long since ceased to value and had quite forgotten until this moment, he gradually let himself be carried away, and before he knew it he himself was expounding on the subject instead of questioning the boy about the village and its affairs.

“The best thing about peasant life is that a man’s free, he’s his own boss. He’s got his own house, even if it’s a poor one. And he’s got his own land – maybe only a little patch, but it’s his. He’s a king, once he’s got his own land. He’s a man to be reckoned with. He can demand respect from anybody, can’t he?” he ended up with animation.

Gavrilla looked at him curiously, and he, too, became animated. In the course of their talk he had forgotten who this man was; he saw in him only another peasant like himself, glued fast to the land by the sweat of many generations of forefathers, bound to it by memories of childhood; a peasant who of his own free choice had severed connections with the land and with labour on the land, for which he had been duly punished.

“True, brother. How very true! Look at you, now; what are you without any land? The land, brother, is like your mother; there’s no forgetting it.”

Chelkash came back to his surroundings. Again he felt that burning sensation in his chest that always troubled him when his pride – the pride of a reckless dare-devil – was injured, especially if injured by someone he considered a nonentity.

“Trying to teach me!” he said fiercely.

“Did you think I meant what I said? Know your place, upstart!”

“You’re a funny one,” said Gavrilla with his former timidity. “I didn’t mean you. There’s lots of others like you. God, how many miserable people there are in the world! Homeless tramps.”

“Here, take over the oars,” snapped Chelkash, holding back the flood of oaths that surged in his throat.

Once more they exchanged places, and as Chelkash climbed over the bundles he had an irresistible desire to give Gavrilla a push that would send him flying into the water.

They did no more talking, but Gavrilla emanated the breath of the village even when he was silent. Chelkash became so engrossed in thoughts of the past that he forgot to steer, and the current turned the boat out to sea. The waves seemed to sense that this boat was without a pilot, and they played with it gleefully, tossing it on their crests and leaping in little blue flames about the oars. In front of Chelkash’s eyes passed a kaleidoscope of the past, of the distant past, separated from the present by the gulf of eleven years of vagrancy. He saw himself as a child, saw his native village, saw his mother, a stout red-cheeked woman with kindly grey eyes, and his father, a stern-faced, red-bearded giant. He saw himself as a bridegroom, and he saw his bride, the plump black-eyed Anfisa with a mild, cheerful disposition and a long plait hanging down her back. Again he saw himself, this time as a handsome Guardsman; again his father, now grey-haired and stooped with labour; and his mother, wrinkled and bent to earth. He saw the reception the village gave him when his army service was over, and he recalled how proud his father had been to show off this healthy, handsome, bewhiskered soldier-son to the neighbours. Memory is the bane of those who have come to misfortune; it brings to life the very stones of the past, and adds a drop of honey even to the bitterest portion drunk at some far time.

It was as if a gentle stream of native air were wafted over Chelkash, bringing to his ears his mother’s tender words, his father’s earnest peasant speech and many other forgotten sounds; bringing to his nostrils the fragrance of mother-earth as it thawed, as it was new-ploughed, as it drew on an emerald coverlet of springing rye. He felt lonely, uprooted, thrown once and for all beyond the pale of that way of life which had produced the blood flowing in his veins.

“Hey, where are we going?” cried Gavrilla.

Chelkash started and glanced about with the alertness of a bird of prey.

“Look where we’ve drifted, damn it all. Row harder.”

“Daydreaming?” smiled Gavrilla.

“Tired.”

“No danger of getting caught with them things?” asked Gavrilla, giving the bundles a little kick.

“No, have no fear. I’ll turn them in now and get my money.”

“Five hundred?”

“At least.”

“God, what a pile! If only I had it! Wouldn’t I play a pretty tune with it, just!”

“A peasant tune?”

“What else? I’d…“

And Gavrilla soared on the wings of his imagination. Chelkash said nothing. His moustache drooped, his right side had been drenched by a wave, his eyes were sunken and lustreless. All the hawkishness had gone out of him, had been wrung out of him by a humiliating introspection that even glanced out of the folds of his filthy shirt.

He turned the boat sharply about and steered it towards a black form rising out of the water.

Once more the sky was veiled in clouds and a fine warm rain set in, making cheerful little plopping sounds as its drops struck the water.

“Stop! Hold it!” ordered Chelkash.

The nose of the boat ran into the side of a barge.

“Are they asleep or what, the bastards?” growled Chelkash as he slipped a boat-hook into some ropes hanging over the side. “Throw down the ladder! And the rain had to wait till this minute to come down! Hey, you sponges! Hey!”

“Selkash?” purred someone on deck.

“Where’s the ladder?”

“Kalimera, Selkash.”

“The ladder, God damn you!”

“Oo, what a temper he’s in tonight! Eloy!”

“Climb up, Gavrilla,” said Chelkash to his companion.

The next minute they were on deck, where three bearded, dark-skinned fellows were talking animatedly in a lisping tongue as they stared over the gunwale into Chelkash’s boat. A fourth, wrapped in a long chlamys, went over to Chelkash and shook his hand without a word, then threw Gavrilla a questioning look.

“Have the money ready in the morning,” Chelkash said to him briefly. “I’m going to take a snooze now. Come along, Gavrilla. Are you hungry?”

“I’m sleepy,” said Gavrilla. Five minutes later he was snoring loudly while Chelkash sat beside him trying on somebody else’s boots, spitting off to one side and whistling a sad tune through his teeth. Presently he stretched out beside Gavrilla with his hands behind his head and lay there with his moustache twitching.

The barge rolled on the waves, a board creaked plaintively, the rain beat on the deck and the waves against the sides of the barge. It was all very mournful and reminded one of the cradle-song of a mother who has little hope of seeing her child happy.

Chelkash bared his teeth, raised his head, glanced about him, muttered something to himself and lay down again with his legs spread wide apart, making him look like a pair of giant scissors.

III

He was the first to wake up. He glanced anxiously about him, was instantly reassured, and looked down at Gavrilla, who was snoring happily, a smile spread all over his wholesome, sunburnt, boyish face. Chelkash gave a sigh and climbed up a narrow rope-ladder. A patch of lead-coloured sky peered down the hatchway. It was light, but the day was dull and dreary, as is often so in autumn.

Chelkash came back in a couple of hours. His face was red and his whiskers had been given a rakish twist. He was wearing a sturdy pair of high-boots, a leather hunting jacket and breeches as a hunter wears. The outfit was not new, but in good condition and very becoming to him, since it filled out his figure, rounded off the edges and gave him a certain military air.

“Get up, puppy,” said he, giving Gavrilla a little kick.

Gavrilla jumped up only half-awake and gazed at Chelkash with frightened eyes, not recognizing him. Chelkash burst out laughing.

“Don’t you look grand!” said Gavrilla with a broad grin at last. “Quite the gentleman.”

“That don’t take us long. But you’re a lily-livered fellow if there ever was one. How many times were you about to pass out last night?”

“You can’t blame me; I’d never been on a job like that before. I might have lost my soul.”

“Would you do it again, eh?”

“Again? Only if – how shall I put it? What would I get for it?”

“If you got, let’s say, two smackers?”

“You mean two hundred roubles? Not bad. I might.”

“And what about losing your soul?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t lose it after all,” grinned Gavril-la.

“You wouldn’t lose it, and you’d be made for the rest of your life.”

Chelkash laughed gaily, “Well, enough of joking; let’s go ashore.”

And so they found themselves in the boat again, Chelkash steering, Gavrilla rowing. Above them stretched a solid canopy of grey clouds; the sea was a dull green and it played joyfully with the boat, tossing it up on waves that had not yet grown to any size, and throwing handfuls of pale spray against its sides. Far up ahead could be glimpsed a strip of yellow sand, while behind them stretched the sea, chopped up into coveys of white-caps. Behind them, too, were the ships – a whole forest of masts back there to the left, with the white buildings of the port as a background. A dull rumble came pouring out of the port over the sea, mingling with the roar of the waves to form fine strong music. And over everything hung a thin veil of fog that made all objects seem remote.

“Ekh, it’ll be something to see by nightfall!” exclaimed Chelkash, nodding out to sea.

“A storm?” asked Gavrilla as he ploughed powerfully through the waves with his oars. His clothes were soaked with wind-blown spray.

“Uh-huh,” said Chelkash.

Gavrilla looked at him inquisitively.

“Well, how much did they give you?” he asked at last, seeing that Chelkash had no intention of broaching the subject.

“Look,” and Chelkash pulled something out of his pocket and held it out.

Gavrilla’s eyes were dazzled by the sight of so many crisp bright bank-notes.

“And here I was thinking you had lied to me! How much is it?”

“Five hundred and forty.”

“Phe-e-w!” gasped Gavrilla, following the course of the notes back to the pocket with greedy eyes. “God! If only I had that much money!” and he gave a doleful sigh.

“You and me’ll go on a big spree, mate,” cried Chelkash ecstatically. “We’ll paint the town red. You’ll get your share, never fear. I’ll give you forty. That enough, eh? Give it straight away if you want me to.”

“All right, I’ll take it if you don’t mind.”

Gavrilla was shaking with anticipation.

“Ekh, you scarecrow, you! ‘I’ll take it!’ Here, go ahead and take it. Take it, damn it all. I don’t know what to do with so much money. Do me a favour and take some of it off my hands.”

Chelkash held out several notes to Gavrilla, who let go of the oars to clutch them in trembling fingers and thrust them inside his shirt, screwing up his eyes as he did so and taking in great gulps of air as if he had just scalded his throat. Chelkash watched him, a squeamish smile on his lips. Once more Gavrilla picked up the oars and began to row nervously, hurriedly, with his eyes cast down, like a man who has just had a bad fright. His shoulders and ears were twitching.

“You’re a greedy bloke. That’s no good. But what’s to be expected? – you’re a peasant,” mused Chelkash.

“A man can do anything with money!” exclaimed Gavrilla in a sudden flare of excitement. And then hurriedly, incoherently chasing his thoughts and catching his words on the fly, he drew the contrast between life in the village with money and without it. Honour, comfort, pleasure!

Chelkash followed him attentively, his face grave, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. From time to time he would give a pleased smile.

“Here we are!” he interrupted Gavrilla’s tirade.

The boat was caught on a wave that drove it into the sand.

“Well, this is the end. But we’ve got to pull the boat up good and high so that it don’t get washed away. Some people will come for it. And now it’s good-bye. We’re about ten versts from town. You going back to town?”

Chelkash’s face was beaming with a sly and good-natured smile, as if he were contemplating something very pleasant for himself and very unexpected for Gavrilla. He thrust his hand into his pocket and rustled the notes there.

“No – I’m not going. I’m – I’m —” Gavrilla stammered as if choking.

Chelkash looked at him.

“What’s eating you?” he said.

“Nothing.” But Gavrilla’s face turned first red, then grey, and he kept shifting on his feet as if he wanted to throw himself at Chelkash or do something else of insuperable difficulty.

Chelkash was nonplussed by the boy’s agitation. He waited to see what would come of it.

Gavrilla broke into laughter that sounded more like sobbing. His head was hanging, so that Chelkash could not see the expression of his face, but he could see his ears going from red to white.

“To hell with you,” said Chelkash with a disgusted wave of his hand. “Are you in love with me, or what? Squirming like a girl. Or maybe you can’t bear to part with me? Speak up, spineless, or I’ll just walk off.”

“You’ll walk off?” shrieked Gavrilla.

The deserted beach trembled at the shriek, and the ripples of yellow sand made up by the washing of the waves seemed to heave. Chelkash himself started. All of a sudden Gavrilla rushed towards Chelkash, threw himself at his feet, seized him round the knees and gave him a tug. Chelkash staggered and sat down heavily in the sand; clenching his teeth, he swung up his long arm with the hand closed in a tight fist. But the blow was intercepted by Gavrilla’s pleadings, uttered in a cringing whisper:

“Give me that money, there’s a good fellow! For the love of Christ give it to me. What do you need with it? Look, in just one night – in one single night! And it would take me years and years. Give it to me. I’ll pray for you. All my life. In three churches. For the salvation of your soul. You’ll only throw it to the winds, while I? I’ll put it in the land. Give it to me! What is it to you? It comes so easy. One night, and you’re a rich man. Do a good deed once in your life. After all, you’re a lost soul; there’s nothing ahead of you. And I’d – oh what wouldn’t I do with it! Give it to me!”

Chelkash – frightened, dumbfounded, infuriated – sat in the sand leaning back on his elbows; sat without a word, his eyes boring into this boy whose head was pressed against his knees as he gasped out his plea.

At last Chelkash jumped to his feet, thrust his hand into his pocket and threw the notes at Gavrilla.

“Here, lick it up!” he cried, trembling with excitement, with pity and loathing for this greedy slave. He felt heroic when he had tossed him the money.

“I was going to give you more anyway. Went soft last night thinking of my own village. Thought to myself: I’ll help the lad. But I waited to see if you’d ask for it. And you did, you milksop, you beggar, you. Is it worth tormenting yourself like that for money? Fool. Greedy devils. No pride. They’d sell themselves for five kopeks.”

“May Christ watch over you! What’s this I’ve got? Why, I’m a rich man now!” squealed Gavrilla, twitching all over in ecstasy and hiding the money inside his shirt. “Bless you, my friend. I’ll never forget you. Never. And I’ll have my wife and children say prayers for you, too.”

As Chelkash heard his joyful squeals and looked at his beaming face distorted by this paroxysm of greed, he realized that, thief and drunk that he was, he would never stoop so low, would never be so grasping, so lacking in self-pride. Never, never! And this thought and this feeling, filling him with a sense of his own freedom, made him linger there beside Gavrilla on the shore of the sea.

“You’ve made me a present of happiness,” cried Gavrilla, snatching Chelkash’s hand and pressing it against his own face.

Chelkash bared his teeth like a wolf but said nothing.

“And just to think what I almost did!” went on Gavrilla. “On the way here I thought – to myself – I’ll hit him – you, that is – over the head – with an oar – bang! – take the money – and throw him – you, that is – overboard. Who’d ever miss him? And if they found his body – nobody’d bother to find out who did it and how. He’s not worth making a fuss over. Nobody needs him. Nobody’d go to the trouble.”

“Hand over that money!” roared Chelkash, seizing Gavrilla by the throat.

Gavrilla wrenched away once, twice, but Chelkash’s arm wound about him like a snake. The sound of a shirt ripping, and – there was Gavrilla flat on his back in the sand, his eyes popping out of his head, his fingers clutching the air, his feet kicking helplessly. Chelkash stood over him lean, erect, hawk-like, his teeth bared as he gave a hard dry laugh, his whiskers twitching nervously on his sharp bony face. Never in all his life had he been wounded so cruelly, and never had he been so furious.

“Well, are you happy now?” he laughed, then turned on his heel and set off in the direction of the town. Before he had gone five steps Gavrilla arched himself like a cat, sprang to his feet, swung out with his arm and hurled a big stone at him.

“Take that!”

Chelkash let out a grunt, put his hands to his head, staggered forward, turned round to Gavrilla, and fell on his face in the sand. Gavrilla was frozen with fear. Chelkash moved one leg, tried to lift his head, stretched out, trembling like a harp string. Then Gavrilla ran for all he was worth, ran out into the dark space where a shaggy black cloud was hanging over the fog-enshrouded steppe. The waves rustled as they scurried up the sand, mingled with the sand for a brief moment, scurried back again. The foam hissed and the air was filled with spray.

It began to rain. At first it came down in single drops, but soon turned into a torrent that came pouring out of the sky in thin streams. These streams wove a net of watery threads that enveloped the whole expanse of the steppe, the whole expanse of the sea. Gavrilla was swallowed up in it. For a long time nothing was to be seen but the rain and the long figure of the man laying in the sand at the edge of the sea. Then Gavrilla came swooping like a bird out of the darkness. When he reached Chelkash he fell on his knees beside him and tried to lift him up. His hand came in contact with something warm and red and sticky. He shuddered and started back, with a wild expression on his white face.

“Get up, brother, get up!” he whispered in Chelkash’s ear above the noise of the rain.

Chelkash opened his eyes and gave Gavrilla a little push.

“Go away,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Brother! Forgive me! It was the devil’s doings,” whispered Gavrilla trembling as he kissed Chelkash’s hand.

“Go away. Leave me.”

“Take this sin off my soul. Forgive me, brother.”

“Away! Go away! Go to hell!” Chelkash suddenly cried out and sat up in the sand. His face was white and angry, his eyes were hazy and kept closing as if he were sleepy. “What else do you want? You’ve done what you wanted to do. Go away. Get out!” He tried to give the grief-stricken Gavrilla a kick, but he could not and would have collapsed again had not Gavrilla put an arm round his shoulders. Chelkash’s face was on a level with Gavrilla’s. Both faces were white and dreadful to see.

“Bah!” And Chelkash spat into the wide-open eyes of his assistant.

Gavrilla humbly wiped his face on his sleeve.